


out by the pool, behind the fence

by scribacchina



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribacchina/pseuds/scribacchina
Summary: It's not easy to fit what Klaus does into a seemingly normal life. He has a nice home, a steady and loving relationship. He's been sober for two years, six months and twelve days - and work is. Fine.And sometimes, people will pay him to speak with their dead.
Relationships: Dave/Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 21
Kudos: 120





	out by the pool, behind the fence

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes my first written contribution to the fandom. Thanks a bunch to Patch, for betaing and also listening to me rambling.
> 
> For some context: everything is pretty much the same as is in Canon. Except Dave and Klaus met in modern time, and also Klaus is sober.
> 
> Things are still complicated.

Air outside the morgue always smells better going out. Still, there’s nothing to drive out the stink of formaldehyde like some good old nicotine. The spark of Dave’s zippo lights his palms for a moment and Klaus reads, hello. 

He takes one, two drags, relishing in the calm that surrounds the building. Cocooning it like a particularly ugly moth. Saint Sebastian’s Home of Hope is a grey brick of concrete and depression, risen from the earth somewhere in the sixties. 

It’s not nearly as fancy-looking as it’s name would imply, but the pay is good. 

Only notable characteristic of the place are the pines that flank it. Four, impossibly tall giants that have been guarding the grounds for over twenty years. Klaus likes to joke they’re there to make sure no one gets out. Tonight, they sway gently in the breeze, long branches beckoning Klaus closer. 

“Hey, Klaus!” 

He blinks at the darkness beyond the porch. There’s no moon in the sky, and Mark’ smile gradually emerges from nothing. He waves his hand so hard, from side to side, it’s almost comical. Klaus gives a polite nod, eyeing the couple following quietly. 

“Working late, uh?” 

“Consultation hours are from three to five PM. Sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow,” he says, ignoring Mark and addressing the man and woman standing a few feet to the side. An unsettling feeling begins to grow somewhere in his stomach. 

They all face each other. Klaus clasps the zippo in his fist, and heads down the steps and into the parking area. He makes it almost out of the circle of bright yellow painted by the neons at the entrance, when Mark’s voice reaches him. 

“Hey, listen, um. Are you done with the Donner girl?” He asks, as if he hadn’t been handling her body just a couple hours earlier. He’s biting his lip, worrying at a speck of dry skin. “These are her parents. You know, she was only seventeen.”

The mother chokes back a sob. Klaus frowns, painfully aware of the fact that his car is parked less than a meter away. He lets the cigarette fall to his feet and stubbs it out with a swift stomp. 

“Yes,” he says, “Yes, I know.” I drained her body of all fluids. I sutured the cuts on her chest and thighs. I know. 

“Please,” the father erupts from the back, but then his mouth falls shut again. He can’t seem to find the words. His glasses fog up, and he reaches to paw at them with long, wiry fingers. The mother hands him a handkerchief. 

“I told them,” Mark starts, rubbing his neck. “Sorry, Klaus, I just — they begged me and I couldn’t,” he gestures between Klaus and the both of them, as if to bring them all together. That is decisively something Klaus doesn’t want to do. He rubs at the bridge of his nose with enough haste to leave a red spot. 

“What the fuck, Mark. What the actual fuck.” 

“I know, man, I’m sorry. I just, I thought you could help them.” 

Klaus snorts. Right, so now it’s up to him. Big bad Klaus doesn’t wanna help you reconnect with your deceased daughter because, he’s an asshole I guess. 

He could just, say no. Walk out. What are they gonna do, force him? Call his boss and tell on Klaus because he won’t use his alleged powers? 

Dave is probably already gotten home, waiting, with Klaus‘ portion of dinner cooling in the microwave. 

“Let me make a call,” he says. Then, pointing in the parents’ direction, “Payment ahead. This isn’t even a scheduled appointment, people.” 

Phone rings for a moment too long, and Klaus is worried it’ll go to voicemail, and he’ll have to walk into this without having spoken to Dave. 

There’s no real danger of him being harmed - that he knows of. It’s never happened. Still, experience taught him it’s good to start a session with a somewhat positive attitude. Or at least something to anchor yourself, like carrying your boyfriend’s lighter, or the rumble of his laugh in your ears. 

“Baby,” Dave says, with an unmistakable note of worry pinching every word. “Is everything okay?” 

“Dave,” Klaus sighs, leaning against the cool metal of his busted Jeep. He can hear some faint laughing in the background, and clapping. “Are you watching John Oliver without me?” He whispers, knowing this’ll drive at least a chuckle out of him. 

“Busted.” 

Neither of them says a word after that, and Klaus looks back at the small group standing in front of the morgue.

“Listen, I gotta take care of something. I will probably be late, and I just. Wanted to check up on you. Don’t wait for me, alright?” 

“Okay,” Dave says, drawing each vowel out. “Is this work related, or. The other thing?”

It's not easy to fit what Klaus does into a seemingly normal life. He has a nice home, a steady and loving relationship. He's been sober for two years, six months and twelve days - and work is, on most days, fine. 

And sometimes, people will pay him to speak with their dead. 

“The other thing,” he says. “Mark snitched on me with these two, and I can’t exactly say no.”

Dave hums from his end, “Not true. You can always say no, Klaus. You don’t have to do this if you don't want to, it’s not your responsibility.” Klaus feels a twinge in his chest, and then warmth spreading to his neck. 

“Thank you,” he exhales, “I’m good. I can do this. Also, gas isn’t going to pay itself.” 

Laughs. He imagines Dave shifting on the sofa, relaxed and comfortable and alive. Klaus shuts his eyes and makes an effort, to burn the picture into his retinas. Okay. 

“I love you.” 

Klaus asks Mark to lay out the girl, while he finds somewhere to sit himself. The examination room is cold, although not the coldest part of the morgue. It's bare and yellowish, with an entire wall dedicated to storing the bodies. The mother sniffles, hugging her cardigan-clad arms.

“Shouldn’t we light some candles?” She asks. 

“Why, did she like them?” Klaus smiles humorlessly. “This isn’t The Hollywood Medium, lady. Just the body is more than enough.” 

Both mother and father don’t seem too happy with that. Mark unzips the bag and lays the corpse down, with more care than he usually bothers to pay. Klaus is going to have a long chat with Management about boundaries and co workers in the morning, but for now he decides to push aside all of his annoyance. 

“What was her name, again?” He asks, peering at the girl’s face. Rigor mortis has set her expression into one of muted rage, as if she had died while holding onto some words she really wished to speak. It is an objective evaluation, but Klaus knows to trust his guts when it comes to the dead. 

“Lucy,” the father gives a wet cough, “Lucille.” 

“That’s a beautiful name,” he muses, hitching the cloth further up her shoulders, as if to tuck her in. Ben was only a few weeks older when he went. 

Klaus has managed to build some walls, over the years. It used to be an endless onslaught, of weeping and tearing and crying. The drugs helped — until they didn’t. He doesn’t know how, maybe as he got used to the various chemicals, his consciousness became harder and harder to bury. 

It took him a long while. But now he can set up a bubble, of sorts, around himself. He still sees them, feels them wherever he goes. But he’s learned to nudge spirits away, hopefully towards some place better, where they can do something more useful with their immortal souls than haunt him. 

But of course, he can still reel them in. 

“You’re gonna have to shut up, now,” he says. “They don’t like when you talk over them. She might be more or less corporeal, slam a few doors. Don’t mind it. Just sit there, and I’ll tell you when you can speak.” He rips his gaze off the floor to give everyone in the room his most somber, serious look. They all nod, and pick a corner. 

Klaus breathes in. Out. He closes his eyes, and imagines peeling a layer off his bubble. Immediately, some other presence attempts to get closer but - no, not you, hush. 

“Lucille,” he calls, “Lucille Donner.” 

Another layer. Something prods at him, and he represses a shudder. 

“I’m looking for Lucille. Her parents would love to talk to her for one, last time.” 

He waits a second more, before letting all his defenses fall. He indulges into the image of Dave at home, then blinks his eyes open. 

Lucille is standing close to her mother, eyes fixated on Klaus. Much like her corpse, she doesn’t seem too cheery - which is expected of such a young soul. They’re usually the ones that tend to stick around longer. 

Klaus fights to maintain a neutral tone, “She’s here,” he says. The mother tenses tight as a bowstring, shooting glances all over the room. 

“It’s alright,” Klaus says, “Lucille, thank you for coming here. Your parents have been waiting for you. I’m sure you’re scared, but I can help you —“ 

“Can you help me?” She asks.

Her voice is flat, monotone, and devoid of any happiness. Klaus feels it in his chest, an hollow gape that spreads from her to the space between his ribs. To describe it, he could say it’s similar to going on a rollercoaster and having your intestines rise up to your throat. The vertigo nearly sends him stumbling. 

“Ye- s, I can help you.” Klaus wheezes, gesticulating for Mark to stay in his place.

Lucille briefly turns to her mother, “Tell her about my locket. It’s in the cabin, behind the garage. She’ll want it back,” she frowns at Klaus. “Can you do that?” 

“Of course, I’ll tell them about the lo —“ 

“It was him.” 

He staggers. When Lucille talks again, blood spills from her gums, “It was him,” she echoes. 

“Him?” Klaus frowns, “I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?” 

He forces each word to be as clear as possible. Lucille raises one, pale arm to point. Klaus already knows what at, but he keeps holding her gaze. Her eyes have gone pale and fogged, but there’s a clarity to them. She’s angry.

Klaus wets his lips, “Lucille seems to be particularly preoccupied with you,” he quickly glances to the father. He takes a step further, mouth quivering into a half smile, tapping on his chest.

“He did this to me,” Lucille laments, “And he’s getting away with it.” 

“What is she saying? Lucy, sweetie? Talk to momma, tell her,” the mother lunges forward, but Lucille has already moved from her spot. She’s standing directly in front of Klaus, the only thing separating them her own, rotting body. She grasps at the table and the metal hinges creak imperceptibly. 

“She’s upset,” Klaus manages to slip in, before Lucille opens her mouth again. Her back molars are missing, all of them. Someone pried them out of their sockets before bludgeoning her head with a pipe. As he watches, Lucille skull caves in. 

“Do something,” she yells with all the air in her punctured lungs. “Help me.” 

Klaus’ control is slipping. He wasn’t expecting this kind of a situation, he isn’t prepared to deal with it. Lucille wants him to fix her, compels him to swipe at the scalpels and scissors and cut through her father’s stomach.

Her father— Klaus thinks he sees a moment of absolute, pure understanding in his eyes, but he can’t be sure. Everyone is staring at him, screaming, crying, and suddenly Klaus is twelve again, crouching in a mausoleum. 

“Check in the shed, in the garden. There’s a chain there, the — the locket you gave her. It’s there, wedged between the wooden planks,” Klaus manages to spit out, craning under the increasing pressure. He doesn’t mention the various specks of blood and hair that are stuck in it from her father ripping it off her.

“The locket?”

“Yeah, the one with her name carved in. It’s golden and shiny, and you gave it to her for her thirteen — no, sixteenth birthday.”

It’s hard to discern anything of value from Lucille. She doesn’t wanna speak to momma, she doesn’t wanna speak at all. She wants to tear someone else apart. And if Klaus doesn’t leave soon, that someone might just be him. 

“I’m sorry, I – gotta leave. We’re done.” 

“Wait,” the father manages to wrangle his bony fingers and grab Klaus’ arm. He represses the urge to kick out a leg like a trapped deer. “I’m not paying for this. You didn’t tell us anything. I want proof that you spoke with my daughter!” 

Klaus blinks at him, at the sheen of sweat that covers every inch of his skin. He wrenches himself away. 

“Oh, you’ll get proof,” he croaks, already half out the door. Whatever happens next in that place, he doesn’t want to be there to see it. 

Klaus sits in his car, three miles down the road from the morgue, and dials the number under Lucille Donner’s silent watch. 

“Diego, it’s me. I know, sorry. I’ve got something for you.”

Dinner was lasagna. Klaus unwraps the tinfoil, stuffs it in the garbage before throwing his food in the microwave and bracing himself against the kitchen counter. He’s pretty sure there’s an emergency wine carton, somewhere in the fridge. 

“Klaus?” 

“Here.” 

Dave paws at both eyes, creaking his neck this way and that. He must’ve fallen asleep on the couch. He shouldn’t, it always gives him such a headache when he wakes. 

“So,” he says, leaning against the table. “Long night?” 

Klaus looks to him, the microwave, then Dave again. He covers his face; he wants to cry, but manic giggles bubble from him in a strangled cacophony, which immediately garners him Dave’s attention. 

They hug for the whole five minutes and forty-five seconds it takes to heat up dinner. At some point, the timer goes off. 

It’s a living.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If you've read so far, first of all, thank you. Secondly, I wouldn't mind hearing what you thought of the fic down here, in the comments. Thirdly, you can find me on tumblr as @parasocialite (please come talk, I need more friends).
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
